


Boston Tea Party

by Imnotazombie



Series: World History [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotazombie/pseuds/Imnotazombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America was done.  With England, with taxes, with all these proclamations, dumb laws he keeps on passing, with his big brother trying to control him, make the land to be called America the perfect country Britain never was.<br/>So on December 16, 1773. America does something stupid, something filled with reckless abandon, something that makes him  feel alive and free for the first time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boston Tea Party

Its hard to tell where the story begins, but because this tale is so twisted and long, Let’s start, say, right after The Tea Act.  
America stands at Boston Harbor, with long black hair flowing behind him. Streaks of red and black covered his face. Feathers from flying beasts, and furs from the ones that trot the earth covered him, nearly entirely. Hand-made beads adorned his arms and neck. He was so tired of it all. That is why he took the clothes of the natives. That is why he carried a hatchet in his hand. 

He was done. 

Britain had mocked him. Mocked the very ground he stood on now. Britain didn’t let him grow. There was an entire proclamation against it. No impressive names, just the Proclamation of 1763. How original! He wasn’t allowed to grow beyond the Appalachian Mountains. Sure, every time he tried he got into a war with those who were here, but it was his decision to do so. It was his decision to leave, to be whatever he wanted. Not whatever Britain wanted him to be. Greedy little Britain thought all he was was a way to make more money. How can a brother view the younger like that? 

He boycotted all they could during the Stamp Act. America bought hardly anything. Anything printed in Britain had that damned stamp. You know how much they taxed for that measly mess of ink? Too much. Too much money to not feel suffocated by his brother. By the one who raised him, controlled him for too long. Far too long. The answer was easy enough. Boycott. Don’t buy anything printed in England, nothing with that ugly mess of ink. What does he do? Take away the damned stamp, the one that was so hard to avoid. But send out a Proclamation saying he was allowed to make any rules he damned pleased. That little shit. 

Then, then when the East India trading company was going bankrupt, guess who had to fix that? He did. He figured that the reason we were boycotting was because we were poor. Because we didn’t want to spend money. Not because America was sick and tired of him. Because even though they were an ocean apart he was breathing down his neck still. So he made the tea cheaper. So cheap and underpriced it was pathetic. It mocked him. Mocked the dirt he farmed, the crops he grew. America boycotted again. But it wasn’t enough. Yet Britain was shoving his cheap ass tea at him. Not letting him go without it. He made his own tea now, the tea that grew all over the land of his. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

And now at the harbor, ships lay full of that tea. The tea that Britain had insisted they drank for so long.  
So he runs. He stows away on the ships full of tea. The cold night air pelting his face, making his eyes water as he ran. He couldn’t stop now. He had to show him. Show him that he was different from Britain. No one wanted to stop the crazy Indian. He cut everyone who stood in the way of his boats.  
The air still pelted his face, and the cries of the soldiers standing guard echoed through the harbor. Dumb Britain, Look at what you made him do. Look at the way he’s slashing at each chest, and popping open each wooden box. The first one he opened slowly, dumping the small container over the side. He liked that feeling. That’s when this white hot rage filled him entirely. It took over his entire body. He hoisted the heavy container full of literal grass and chucked it over the side.  
He liked that feeling even more. 

One by one, each crate was being hurled over the side. Cutting and slashing at each lock that stood in his way. Nothing could stop him. Nothing could stop him when this feeling was over taking, that grew more and more powerful every time he heard the splash, every time the wooden and clay beads rustled against each other. Every time the hatchet cut through wood and metal. He wouldn’t stop, not until every single bag of tea was steeping in the harbor. He was chanting the cries of the Natives, so obsessed with his disguise and what he was doing. It felt great too rebel like this. It was one thing to simply stand back and not buy anything, to say some mean words to a guard in front of the customs house. A little rebellion is good sometimes, but full blown rioting was such a joy! The cutting, the singing, the dumping, the throwing! The cycle was so repetitive but he never grew old of this joy! Ah, but then he was done. Far too soon. 

One-point-seven million American dollars worth of tea was floating around the harbor.  
It was such a lovely sight to see. He only turned away for a second to see his work, but as he did, he was eerily calm for running away from a crime scene.  
“Now this, this, is a tea party.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that is how Americans throw tea parties every day ever since.
> 
> Haha! This was a lot of fun to write, and i hope some of my fellow history buffs appreciate it! If there's anything i missed, or another historical event you want me to write like this, just tell me! There's a good chance i will :b
> 
> Follow my tumblr for any updates that may happen:  
> http://the-drug-in-me-is-not-you-.tumblr.com/


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